


a first name basis sort of thing

by a financial diuretic (Shame_Account)



Series: i've seen 2 whole episodes of Suits don't ask me how lawyering works [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Modern Era, Pre-Slash, also violence happens, and there is talk of cops and of violence specific to situations involving cops, if there are 2 things in this world i don't know how to write it's law firms and new york oh boy, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_Account/pseuds/a%20financial%20diuretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm afraid to open this," Washington says, indicating his own much more professional-looking briefcase. "I... might have swung it at somebody?"</p><p>"You back your stuff up to the cloud, right?" This is a conversation that Alex is having, in a cab, with his boss. Okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very far-removed prequel to my other story, [Kind of Into it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6513877), but you probably don't need to read that for this to make sense. Fair warning, that one's a watersports story, but that doesn't really come into play here.
> 
> What am I doing with my life?? somebody please tell me

Of all the people Alex might expect to see among a crowd of anti-LGBT-protester-protesters, his boss is... probably not even on the list.

But that's definitely George Washington. There's really no mistaking him for anyone else.

For half a second Alex does mistake him as being one of the _protest_ _e_ _rs_ , and he thinks, _well, shit_ , and starts composing a very sarcastic letter of resignation in his head, and then the other half of that second ends with Washington grabbing a sign from a short, angry white guy and holding it just out of his reach.

And Alex decides, all things considered: he's probably not going to land in hot water if staying to watch makes him late for work.

"Behind you, sir!" he shouts, and Washington looks around just in time to duck the literal actual _SINNERS REPENT_ sign being swung at his head, and then, appropriately enough, everything kind of goes to hell.

The two crowds start to well and truly converge, which is going to end badly for everyone involved. The protesters have the advantage of having come to this particular street corner prepared: they have signs, and pepper spray, and a lack of expensive electronics to worry about getting broken or stolen. The anti-protesters have the advantage of being extremely pissed off, and also, Washington. They have _George_ _Washington_.

And now they have Alexander Hamilton. Hoisting his computer bag and clutching it tight to his chest, he jumps into the fray. Because really: how can he _not_?

A few very confused seconds later, he's kicked probably four people and been kicked or hit by at least six, and then someone shoves him backwards so hard there's no time to catch himself –

The back of his head collides with what feels like the top of someone's boot, which is at least better than sidewalk, which he does in fact collide with when the boot disappears, but it's a much _slower_ collision. His ears are ringing. He's pretty sure he's not bleeding.

And then, "Up you get, son, people are dialing," which is the calmest, most polite version of _cops; run for it_ he's ever heard, and then his _fucking boss_ is pulling him to his feet.

"Don't call me son," Alex mutters, instead of _thank you_ _._ Shit. Nice one. Washington herds him down the sidewalk in the general direction of the office, and Alex is starting to wonder if they're really going to just _go to work_ like _nothing happened_ , when Washington stops and flags down a cab.

He gestures for Alex to get in first, and then follows and gives an address that Alex doesn't quite catch. He's a little busy wondering what the fuck is happening.

His ears are still ringing as the cab takes off, and he sets about trying to subtly check himself for a concussion. He probably fails at the subtlety, but he can at least follow his own finger in front of his face, which is a good sign.

Washington turns and studies him. "Your pupils look fine," he says, so, yep, definitely failed.

"Thanks," he hears himself say. At least he finally said that. Good.

He wants to ask where they're going. Instead he unzips his bag and cautiously withdraws his laptop, just far enough to open it and see that the screen hasn't shattered. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm afraid to open this," Washington says, indicating his own much more professional-looking briefcase. "I... might have swung it at somebody?"

"You back your stuff up to the cloud, right?" This is a conversation that Alex is having, in a cab, with his boss. Okay.

"Yeah. It's just the principle of the thing. I've had this computer a long time."

Alex should probably be looking out the window, making some effort to figure out where they're going, but he thinks he might throw up. He swallows. "Good excuse to upgrade."

"True."

The cab stops. Washington pays the driver, gets out, offers Alex a hand. Alex wants to wave it away but his head is spinning and his legs aren't thrilled by the idea of propelling him out of the car on their own.

He recognizes their surroundings vaguely as one of those gray areas that crops up right between a Nice Neighborhood and a Bad Neighborhood, right on the outskirts of the gentrification splash zone. His own apartment lies in a similar cross section, closer to the Bad Neighborhood that he moved out of last year.

Washington is walking towards what looks like the Bad Neighborhood. Alex follows him, and then wonders if he was supposed to.

When the cab is out of sight, Washington turns and starts walking in the opposite direction. For lack of any better ideas, Alex continues to follow him, towards a part of the gray area distinctly closer to the Nice Neighborhood side of things.

"Should be enough to throw'em off," Washington says, more to himself than to Alex, as they enter a pleasantly nondescript brick apartment building.

They step into an elevator.

There's music.

Alex starts laughing and can't stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington's apartment is... big. Not obscenely big, but big. He has a _dining room_. It's not actually walled off or anything, but there's a table, off in the corner, and all the rugs stop short at a perfect right angle around it, and it is so obviously _a dining room_ that it's the first thing Alex really notices.

There's no carpet. Just rugs over nice hardwood flooring. That's the second thing he notices.

The first thing he says is "I was so afraid this was gonna be, like, a frickin _loft_ , and then I would've had to fight you."

"I think I could probably take you," Washington says dryly, and opens his freezer. Alex gets stuck staring at the fridge for a second. It's not super fancy or horrifyingly expensive-looking, but it's definitely a real, grown-up _refrigerator_. With a freezer. He still hasn't gotten around to upgrading from his mini fridge. (Because it still _works_.)

Then Washington hands him a bag of frozen peas. "Thanks," Alex mutters, and holds it gingerly against the back of his head. "I'm reasonably sure I'm not concussed," he adds. "I don't, um..." Words suddenly fail him. _I am in your apartment and that is super weird, I'm not dying, please tell me to leave_. "I don't want to be in your way."

Washington just shrugs. "It's probably best if both of us stay out of sight for a while."

Well. Shit. He can't exactly argue with that. "Yeah, probably."

Washington moves further into the apartment, sits down on the couch and regards his briefcase warily, like it might bite him. "Make yourself at home," he says, not looking up. "I promise this isn't a very strange, secret performance review."

Alex laughs weakly and leans against the kitchen island. (Washington laughed with him, in the elevator. At first. Then he just looked worried.) He really _is_ pretty sure he's not concussed, so what the hell is up? He shouldn't be this -

Dizzy. Shit.

Take stock: Food? Bad. Water? Worse. Bladder? Not great, which just seems unfair, considering all the water he's been forgetting to drink since... possibly yesterday afternoon. Fuck.

He is definitely not about to ask for food or water. He does ask, reluctantly, "Can I use your bathroom?"

The bathroom is _not_ bigger than Alex's entire apartment, which is the hyperbolic thought that keeps trying to occur while he's washing his hands. It _is_ probably the size of his kitchen area, three times over.

He regards the tap water for a second, decides it looks clear enough and that dignity obviously has no place in anything that happens to him today, and takes a drink.

When he goes back out, Washington throws a granola bar at him. He catches it purely on reflex and is too startled to either thank him or protest, just walks mechanically to a chair near the couch and sits down.

Washington still hasn't opened his briefcase. He gets up, crosses back to the fridge and pulls out a filtered water pitcher. Alex chokes on another laugh because it looks like exactly the same cheap Brita knock-off currently sitting in his own mini fridge.

Two glasses. Washington drains one and sets the other next to Alex, on a little table that's level with the arm of the chair. On a _coaster_. Sets the bag of frozen peas on the actual arm of the chair, on a paper towel.

"Drink," he says, when all Alex does is stare at the coaster. " _Eat_. You look half dead, son."

And Alex actually physically bites his tongue to keep from snapping, but he can't prevent the wince. Washington notices. Alex notices the noticing. Washington inclines his head apologetically, and Alex shrugs and drinks the water.

This is more stressful than court.

"What do we do about work?" he asks, when he can't stand the silence any longer. He still hasn't unwrapped the granola bar.

Washington glances up from his phone. "I'm texting Schuyler."

Alex blinks. Why didn't he think of that? "Good thinking, I'll do that, too. What should I go with, family emergency? Sick? Gotta keep our stories straight."

Washington shakes his head, and smiles a kind of - _strange_ smile. "The secret to a _lot_ of this firm's continued existence is making sure Angelica Schuyler knows what's happening at all times."

"You're telling her the _truth_?"

"Yes. And then she'll tell anyone who asks that you're sick, and I had a family emergency. Or something like that."

Alex stares at him, and asks, before he can stop himself, "Have you done this before? The whole - with the cab, I mean. You seemed like you had a plan. You seem like you _still_ have a plan."

"Have I ever walked away from the scene of a fight, taken a cab to the wrong address, and walked the wrong way until the driver couldn't see me anymore? Yes."

"You're full of surprises, sir," Alex says, because what else is there to say? (A lot. There is a lot to say, but he wants to keep his job.)

Washington laughs, shaking his head. "You really - Hamilton, we're not at work, I think we're _as_ not at work as it gets, you _really_ don't have to call me sir."

"You really don't have to call me Hamilton," Alex counters, grinning. "Or maybe, I don't know, what do you think? Is hiding from the cops together a first name basis sort of thing?"

"Oh my god," Washington says, and throws his head back against the couch cushion. "Oh my god, we're hiding from the fucking cops. We're actually - I am _thirty-eight years old_."

"I think it's only really bad once you're forty," Alex offers, startled and frankly delighted by the cursing. "But I'll probably move the benchmark to fifty once _I'm_ forty. I'm not judging you, is what I'm saying."

"I wouldn't think so, considering the stuff you get up to."

"The stuff I - what stuff?" Alex's heart is suddenly beating too hard, too loud, too fast. Shit. Shit. Don't panic. He finishes off the glass of water, looks Washington directly in the eye, and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

They both burst out laughing.

Washington recovers first, at least enough to talk. "You think I don't at least _google_ people before I hire them?"

"That's exactly what I thought, because you hired _me_!"

Which sets Washington off again. Alex rather belatedly remembers the bag of peas, and ducks down to hold it over the back of his head again, and thinks: _Okay. This is happening. Go with it._

"Hamilton," Washington starts, and Alex cuts him off.

" _Alex_ ," he insists. "Nice to meet you, George Washington who is apparently well versed in the art of cop ditching, sir."

Washington rolls his eyes. "All right. Alex. Then I'm just George - no more sir, seriously, you're making me feel old."

 _You're the one who called me son!_ Alex wants to point out, but he doesn't, because that can't lead anywhere good. "So you've seen my _actual_ resume," he says instead.

George grins. "If by resume you mean your _real_ Twitter account, and your face all over social media any time something big has gone down in the city for the past several years, yes."

Alex buries his face in the hand not holding the bag of peas. "And you _hired me_?"

"You give a good interview."

"It's an actual miracle that I've never been convicted of a felony. Or at least slander. I've written so much shit. I have literally punched a cop, in the face - he started it, but, I mean, _a cop_."

"As your boss, I didn't just hear you say that. As your friend, I need to know how the hell you got away with it."

Alex thinks, sharply, _friend?_ , and then he thinks _why the hell not_ , and launches into the story.


	3. Chapter 3

George is a lot less sure than Alex seems to be about the lack of concussion.

"My roommate's a doctor," Alex insists, like that's somehow a transferable qualification. "And I _know_ concussions."

"I believe you on _that_ ," George says, because after the stories Alex has been telling him, he - really, _really_ does. This kid reminds him of himself ten or so years ago, in a way that makes his skin crawl: it's frankly a miracle he didn't get himself killed back then.

"So what about you?" Alex prompts, like he's reading but misinterpreting George's thoughts. "You said you've done this before."

"I used to be very... involved," George says cautiously. "In what you might call the rougher side of politics."

Alex snorts. "That's a good term for it."

"I suppose."

"And now?"

"Now..." He thinks about it. Considers his words carefully. "Now I try to be... conscious. Of how visible I am, how visible we all are. Especially with social media the way it is. I try to be... the kind of person whose reputation isn't going to destroy his own law firm, which I like to tell myself makes more of a difference than I ever could in a fight."

Alex looks him right in the eye and says, "That was a long way to go to avoid the word 'respectable.'"

George shrugs. "I had to make a choice."

"That's fair. But then you hired _me_?"

"Some press is good press. Even negative press. To a point."

Alex stares at him. "I'm, what, a bat signal for the societally marginalized?"

George chokes on nothing, muffles started laughter turned to coughs in one hand. "Uh, something like that, yes. I can't hire twenty lawyers with reputations like yours - I can't hire twenty lawyers period at this point, but I mean - _one_ lawyer like you..."

"Tells people we're willing to take their cases."

"Exactly."

"Huh."

They sit in silence for a while. Which is just strange. For as long as George has known Alexander Hamilton, he's known the man loves to talk. Not even loves to talk; _has_ to talk.

Alex stands up. "I'm gonna head home," he says, with a startling sort of finality. He checks his phone. "It's after three, shit, how long have I been here?" He barrels onward, doesn't give George a chance to answer or cut in. "I'll take a different route home and have John check me over when he gets back from his shift tonight, see you tomorrow."

And then he's out the door.

George stares at nothing and waits to realize what went wrong.

Then he realizes he's not staring at nothing; he's staring at the chair Alex was sitting in. The granola bar is still there. Alex never even unwrapped it.

Fair enough. George never opened his briefcase.

He opens it now. The laptop is shattered. He tries not to be disappointed.

For some reason that's what makes him get it. _Shit_.

He looks down at his phone, contemplating his options. He has Alex's number - except he doesn't. He has _Hamilton's_ number. He has his _employee's_ number. For work-related communication.

Well. This _is_ work-related. He spends probably a pathetic amount of time crafting as neutral and professional a message as he can manage:

_Hey. Just realized what it probably sounded like I was implying. You're not just a mascot or something. If you weren't good at your job, you wouldn't have it._

Alex doesn't reply for a while. George spends the time shopping around for a new laptop on his phone, pretending he's not waiting for a text. When he actually gets one, he's almost startled.

**Thanks. I might possibly be an overreacting asshole who probably should have asked what you meant.**

_Home safe?_

**Yeah.**

_Eat something_ (Backspace) _You should eat something_ (Backspace) _You left the granola bar. Not a fan?_

**Oh shit thanks for reminding me. Gonna eat now before I can forget again.**

_You're welcome_ (Backspace) _How often do you forget to eat?_ (Backspace) _LOL good idea_

Half an hour later:

**Is anyone a fan of granola bars??**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STAY TUNED FOR MORE, PROBABLY, I GUESS?


End file.
